He sobbed in reply.
‘No, really. It happens to everyone. Especially people with high pressure jobs, like you’
‘I just wanted to give you a good seeing to, yes?’
He looked up at me with those cold blue eyes and started to cry again.
‘It’s okay Gordon. No, it’s really fine.’
‘Just, just don’t tell Anthony Worrell-Thompson, yes? That little SHIT will tell everyone what happened, yes? I don’t want to lose my sponsorship deals, yes?’
The Michelin-starred chef gave me a hug. A little trail of snot dribbled out of his nose as he made the internationally recognised hand-signal for ‘would you like a cup of tea?’ (You make your hands into the shape of the letter tea and raise your eyebrows). I nodded.
Once he was back in the kitchen he seemed to come alive again. His muscled body was covered in eczema and his back-hair had been shaved into a Saltaire, dyed blue. When he returned he had a silk kimono on. It was too short, and his puny balls were visible below the hemline.
‘That’s nice Gordon,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘It is fucking nice isn’t it, yes? I got it from Japan. Yes, the actual Japan.’
I nodded and sipped the tea.
‘Look, do you want to just cuddle for a bit?’ he asked.
‘Erm, well I have to…’
‘Only for a bit! Go on, yes?’
He pounced on me and knocked the tea out of my hands. I rocked him forwards and backwards on my knee cooing softly. Gordon sucked his thumb and snuggled into the crook of my arm.
‘You know… if you hang around’ he sniffed ‘we could go and shout at my Sous Chef?’
He looked at me hopefully.
‘Perhaps Gordon. Perhaps’